Avery looked around towards the door, and then back at Lyra, trying to look conspiratorial. "I'll wait til they aren't looking, then grab a wheelchair," he said, trying to cheer her up a little bit. He felt bad that he couldn't do any more than that to make her better, honestly. How had she gotten that drunk, anyway? Surely she knew her limits...
Maybe it was Patrick. Maybe being around him had made her worse. Maybe he didn't do it on purpose but she'd been trying to keep up with him or something, and he's the fuckin god of Irish drunks so how could she have a hope? He frowned a bit, and squeezed her hand lightly. "Do you remember what happened? Did they have to pump your stomach?"